Chapter 11

R aine leaned against the doorjamb, enjoying the sight of the young woman’s rigid spine above the tantalizing sway of her hips as she swept down the hall and disappeared into the gloom. He’d seen her crossing the courtyard a few days before. Something had been familiar in her stride, in the set of her shoulders, and the way she held her head. For a moment, in profile, she’d resembled someone from his past but then she’d turned and the sense of long-ago familiarity had been supplanted by a much more recent one. But it wasn’t until he’d seen her closely that he’d realized that the black-haired girl fleeing an amorous pursuer was the same golden-tressed widow who’d so thoroughly duped him in Dieppe.

She’d dyed her hair and plucked the fierce slashing brows—which, oddly enough, he rather regretted—and disguised the full sensuous curve of her mouth under a thin painted line. She’d even done something to her eyes, causing the pupils to devour their iridescent blue—a grave error in his estimation should she indeed be seeking a mate.

Had she gone to such lengths to, as she claimed, make herself more appetizing to the English gentleman’s palate? Perhaps. She would never be a classic beauty, her sharp-angled face lacking that oval symmetry such demanded. But there was some element that drew the attention, a certain comeliness, some quality that made a man want to watch her mouth move as she spoke, to touch the high outer curve of her cheek.

Raine pushed off the wall, turning and strolling back into the room. Miss Favor should be on her knees right now, thanking God that the past years had taught him restraint. Not a great deal of restraint, but enough that he’d asked her name before tossing her on that rickety bed and finding out just how attentively the holy Sisters had guarded their charge’s virtue.

Aye, Favor McClairen was lucky. Her name had stopped him. But in his impetuous youth … or should he find out she’d lied again …

He sighed. Unfortunately, there was no doubt she was Favor McClairen—whether or not she and her brother chose to call themselves Donne. He’d recognized her. She was no longer a child, but the obstinate set of her chin was the same, as was the fierceness in her eyes.

His smile faded. He glanced down at the unhappy Orville, currently attempting to rise to his hands and knees. Raine dusted off his hands and considered Favor’s advice. She was probably right. The last thing he needed was to have Favor’s suitor searching for him.

Orville raised his head, peering blearily about. With a grimace—after all Orville hadn’t been doing anything Raine himself hadn’t considered—Raine rapped him sharply on the jaw. Orville’s eyes promptly rolled back and his head hit the floor with a thud.

With a grunt, Raine hefted him over his shoulder and straightened. He headed down the corridor in the opposite direction the wench had gone. He needed to think.

Perhaps Favor really was seeking to repair her clan’s fortunes by making a spectacular match. Certainly he, better than most, knew how desperately those fortunes needed repairing. After his father had betrayed the McClairens to the Crown, he’d been rewarded with every bit of property and wealth the clan had once owned. But that hadn’t been enough for Carr. He’d made sure no McClairen would reclaim a ha’penny of it by the simple expedience of murdering them all.

Raine dodged the memory of the instrumental part he’d played in his father’s plan. He opened a door leading to the occupied section of the castle, poked his head out, and, seeing no one in either direction, dumped Orville. Orville moaned and Raine shut the door.

He followed the tower’s narrow winding staircase up to the next level, needing no lantern to illumine his way. He knew Wanton’s Blush well, every secret passageway and concealed niche, every hidden room and priest’s hole. More times than he could remember he’d hidden here to escape his father, thanking a usually indifferent Creator for the superstition that kept Carr from these rooms.

At the top floor, Raine headed for the small bedchamber he’d been using as his headquarters since his arrival. There he struck a tinderbox and lit the lantern on the table inside the door. Wearily he snagged a bottle of Carr’s finest port from a tabletop and kicked a dusty armchair toward the single window overlooking the sea. He sank down on it.

He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, took a deep draught, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He paused at the rough feel of his beard. He needed a shave. His gaze fell to his white shirt, slightly stained in spite of his having washed it thrice since his arrival. He smiled at such delicacy. If nothing else, his years of incarceration in that sty had imbued in him a deep and abiding passion for cleanliness.

He leaned his head back, letting his long legs sprawl out before him. As soon as he found his mother’s jewels he’d buy himself a hundred new shirts and as many breeches. He’d never again wear a soiled stockinet cloth or sweat-stained waistcoat again. Mayhap he’d become an eccentric and breathe only through a scented silk kerchief.

When he found his mother’s jewels? Today it seemed the more likely question was if he found them. As far as he knew he was one of the only people to have ever seen the fabled jewels.

’Twas shortly before her death. He’d been nine years old and on a mission to steal a sugar lump. He’d arrived at the kitchen door to find his mother already there. Knowing her views on small boys who pilfered sweets, he’d ducked into the larder.

As he’d watched, an angry-looking redheaded fellow had entered. Afraid of being caught spying, Raine had hunkered down. Though he hadn’t heard much, it was clear the stranger was trying to compel his mother to some act and just as clear she was not to be compelled.

Finally, the stranger left and his mother soon thereafter, her lovely face a mask of worry. Desiring only to comfort her, Raine had slipped out of the kitchen and followed. But rather than head for her private chambers, she’d hastened to the small office she used to receive the local merchants and instruct the household staff. Before Raine could catch up with her, she’d shut the door behind her.

Worried, Raine had peeped through the keyhole. He’d seen her bend over a battered oriental tea chest and begin manipulating the wooden tiles on its surface. Suddenly a shallow drawer had popped up from its center.

Reverently, his mother had withdrawn a heavy gold object from the drawer. It was large, shaped roughly like a dragon, or a lion, and fitted with big, rudely cut stones. She handled it only a second before placing it back in the hidden compartment.

Raine, uncertain of what the object was, nonetheless knew it was something his mother wanted kept concealed. He’d never told anyone about it. Not even Ash. Certainly not his father.

Only later, when he’d begun to hear rumored tales of something called the McClairen Trust, had he realized what he’d seen. By then his mother was dead. Having no great love for her people, and even less for his father, he’d kept mum.

During his years in prison he’d thought often of that homely brooch. It became his lodestar. He’d spent hours plotting exactly how he would liberate it, where he would go with it, how he would sell it and to whom, what price he would ask. He built his entire future around its retrieval, not at all sure he would ever live to experience it.

Now he had the opportunity to realize those dreams.

If he could only find the bloody chest.

Getting into Wanton’s Blush without his father’s knowledge had been no problem. Raine had simply joined the line of servants awaiting their masters’ carriages. He’d grabbed a trunk from the ground, heaved it to his shoulder and followed a footman into the castle and up the servants’ staircase. There he’d dropped his burden and taken an abrupt detour to his mother’s room, assuming he’d be in and out of Wanton’s Blush in less than an hour.

There his plan had gone suddenly awry. Nothing was as he’d remembered it. Worse still, not one item of his mother’s remained.

Raine took another swallow of port, recorked the wine bottle, and set it carefully beside his chair. He’d been searching the castle ever since.

The upper stories of the east facade, in general disuse four years before, were now totally abandoned, given completely over to storage. And what storage! If nothing else, the last week had given Raine a newfound appreciation of the demon driving his father. He’d never seen such a testimony to one man’s avarice. The place was honeycombed with crates and trunks and furnishings, stuffed with a fantastic mixture of valuables and Utter.

Nothing had been thrown. A man could spend half a lifetime sifting through the wreckage and ruin, the treasures and tripe accumulated by a dozen generations, searching for that one small oriental chest.

Not that he had any choice. He had no money, no skills, no past, no future. He couldn’t—or rather wouldn’t—approach his father. Carr believed his youngest son to be rotting in a French prison and as far as Raine was concerned he could just continue to believe so. He would have been there yet had it not been for her.

Raine laced his fingers across his belly and let his chin rest against his breastbone, pondering. Things had become complicated.

Favor McClairen .

He smiled. He was beginning to think God was not indifferent after all, but simply sat upon His celestial throne patiently awaiting the opportunity to perpetrate pranks upon mankind. Nothing else could account for the fact that she, of all the women in the world, should have been his unintentional liberator.

Interesting that she was using her real Christian name. He understood her need to keep the McClairen part mum; Carr would have her flogged from the place should he know. So obviously she didn’t expect the name “Favor” to be recognized. And truthfully, he allowed, who would remember that the scrawny girl who’d saved his life nine years earlier had been named “Favor”? Certainly no one in Carr’s household would have asked after that child’s name. Except for himself—and that months later, after his wounds had healed and the girl had disappeared.

He closed his eyes, the taste of the excellent port not quite enough to purge her own delicate flavor from his lips. Had her name been Sal or Peg or Anne he might well have done exactly what she’d accused him of planning and tossed her on the bed.

But she was wrong on one score. It wouldn’t have been for revenge.

He’d been deceived and used so many times that her small betrayal didn’t even make an appearance on his most-notable list. Amusing, really, that she obviously felt the sting of guilt so keenly. His congratulations to the holy Sisters.

No, he would have taken her because he wanted her.

The lust and longing he’d kept at bay ever since she’d left him abruptly broke free with devastating results. He inhaled deeply, his muscles tensing. He hadn’t meant to tell her how she’d haunted him, how images of her had primed him for sex more than willing flesh and clever mouths. He hadn’t meant to arm her with that particular knowledge.

But then, she was still babe enough not to even realize the weapon he’d handed her.

He frowned. How did one account for her implausible mixture of innocence and savvy? That ingenuous, direct gaze and the accomplished lies? It was a puzzle and, more, it was stimulating. Nearly as arousing as her sweet little body.

He felt again the texture of her velvety breasts, the supple yield of her body, and replayed that simple kiss.

He wanted more.

But then, damnation, her name was Favor McClairen, a girl who’d every right to hate him and wish him dead. The one girl in the world whom he was obligated to aid in every way he could.

The girl whose life he’d ruined.

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